I Hate Birthday Parties

Really, I wouldn't mind not going to one in the rest of my life. They're nothing but torture. This is probably an extension of the 'I hate social gatherings' syndrome, but it is important enough to have its own post. The cake, the syrupy sweet Happy Birthday song, the eats, the embarrassed smile on the face of the person whose birthday it is, the sickly sweet anecdotes about the person that guests feel obliged to relate but everyone else ignores, the presents which do not have much thought behind them, all these get to me.

I was dragged to a birthday party today. Not literally, though I don't think that the day is far off. Apart from all the things mentioned above, the additional bad things about this one were:

1. It was the birthday of the daughter of my ex-crush. I had a massive crush on this person for all of ten years (which was documented for posterity here). That crush is a big deal to me and I strongly feel nobody should be allowed to see their ex-crush's wives or children who are in the wrong age group. It does something really screwy to their mental well-being.

2. There was a scrawny black-all-over kitten who kept getting between everyone's feet, mewling pitifully all the while. I think it got kicked once or twice too, though one can never be sure with children who look innocent the moment you look at them closely. I was too worried to eat because I had my eye and attention on the kitten. I was seriously wondering if it would be alive by the end of the evening. And obviously, you cannot think about eating birthday cake when kittens are about to die around you.

3. There were 13 children crammed into a three-bedroom house. Do I need to elaborate? About two days like that would drive me into becoming a knife-weilding, child-carving maniac. Maybe I should seriously rethink having children.

4. I had to stay there for all of 5 hours. Does one lose IQ points off one's score if one is subjected to long periods of boredom?

There surely could have been some way in which we could have been spared the humiliation of going through birthdays. I would have loved it if people weren't born on one particular day, but miraculously came into being over a period of time (or were assembled from parts born on different days maybe?) But no, someone would surely think of celebrating the completion date. Or (horror!!!) maybe even multiple birthdays. I should be content with what I have. It could be worse...

What happened to Chor Police?

A set of cousins are playing behind the computer chair. Five year olds, both of them, born to different parents. I've been trying to make out what they're playing for the past 20 minutes and I might be able to repeat what the elder one calls himself if I can only make out what he's saying. It sounds different each time but he insists its the same name all through. I'm pretty sure it starts with an X though. Followed by a B?

Right, let's forget the name, their game itself is pretty complicated. Some instructions mumbled in what I suppose are walkie-talkies and hands spread and flicked here and there clutching what I think are capes. Detectives? Superheroes? The next moment one seems to be clutching his heart and dying while the other dances around him. Tribals? A while later one is preening in front of the mirrors while the other looks like he's haggling in a market. Housewives? I look away for a moment and the elder one is spinning some kind of a wheel and saying he will open the way to a new world through that. Teleportation? The little one points a pencil at the other and says 'pssht pssshhhht'. The elder waves his hands, says 'ksssshrrrr...' and the psssht fellow squeals. Yes, squeals. Like an animal. But he sounds pretty amused and is grinning. Doesn't look like the 'ksshhhrrr' was something bad. I catch something about a spaceship in their chatter. All this, they assure me is from a cartoon they see on TV. I ask, is it a mixture of different cartoons? No, they answer. Just one.

The action is amidst the sing-song voice of badly dubbed cartoons. Stilted, formal, north-indian accents. Complete with dramatic voices and weird inflections. Tum ney mujhe woh diya tha? Nahi! Maine usey kho diya hai. Ab hamara kya hoga!! Hum kshitij kaise paar karenge?! Or something like that. Big hindi words which I don't know myself.

They seem so sure and so in tune with each other while making up these complicated games. Some part of my brain says it's making perfect sense to them even while it seems too perplexing to me. I can't help but feel a bit envious. All we had was drab House House, Doctor Patient and Cops and Robbers.

All Taxed Out

I did my Income Tax calculations for the first time today. I think it should be made mandatory for criminals and men to fill up a tax form a day. This is merely man-hatred merging with tax-form-filling-hatred. We will ignore further references to man-hatred if it comes up again. We will instead concentrate on 40% of my salary less HRA and Pension Fund plus house rent or insurance. And how much DA, PA and PDA I get. There were four pages of these insane questions.

My first question was, "What's a rebate?" Now, in hindsight, I realize I've done really good cos I can see how dumb I was before starting. I wanted something like a Filling Tax Forms for Dummies, but Dad came home armed with forms and an unholy determination to make me see light with regard to filing my own income tax returns.

And so I filed. I went through four pages of crazy questions and calculations at the end of which, in a small, tiny font it said that I was not in the tax bracket. My income was not going to be taxed. This I was told, in a tiny, miniscule font, at the end of the damn document! Now if this information had been at the beginning, I wouldn't have gone through all that because I have not earned enough September through February to pay any taxes! Bloody assholes, people who make tax forms. No brains. Stupid men.

Now my vision of Hell is a calculator, a desk and a chair with a stack of tax forms and a devil with a whip in his hand.

Meet Thy Maker

Yesterday as I was lying on my bed, I heard the soft drone a plane. And it grew louder. And still louder. And then Louuudddderrrrrr. And I had that image again. The recurring one. The one where a plane comes crashing into my house, the nose coming straight for my bed where I'm lying, all innocent and unaware (yes, with all the noise and tonnage being hurled at me, so unaware). I can see it clearly. So clearly, in minute detail. And then I don't know what happens, I just see the aftermath. The ruins and fire and smoke and people screaming and buring flesh and... well, the scene which happens when a plane crashes. This is somewhat disturbing because I will not be able to see things after I die, and I will die when a plane's nose seeks me. No gentle nudge, that. It's also disturbing because because it seems I'm fascinated by morbidity. (What if I grow up to be a serial killer?!) (I should stop using the phrase 'when I grow up'. Because, in the words of a moron, "How much more will you grow??!")

So back to the topic, I also imagine earthquakes turning my house into rubble, and I wonder at the fate of my grandparents on the second floor as two floors fall on them. Someone stop me.

Little Devils

The cousins have been here for two weeks of their two month stay and I'm thoroughly sick of them now itself. They broke my photo frame. They broke my showpiece-thingie. My comb's missing. They smeared my bestest white dupatta with vile-smelling-transparent-something. My bedspread has an undistinguishable muddy-reddish stain. My room's a mess. My dressing table's a messier mess. They've downloaded stupid games and I get messages saying my hard disk is full. They're on the computer when I want to be on and they want to see cartoons on the TV while the other one's on the computer and and and and.... Grrrr! And I'm totally pissed off with them.

But, silver lining. Little one. What would the world be without babies? I can go hours playing with her and she's so utterly adorable. Sigh. Now I'll probably dissolve into baby-talk whereas mission of this post was to rant about older siblings' unsufferableness. Nevermind... it's just for a few weeks more. Approximately 6 weeks. That's... uhmmm... 45 days. Well, that doesn't so sound so bad. Hmmm. Ok, maybe I should think of it as 6 weeks instead of 45 days? Yes, that will help. Smaller number.

But Siling. That's short for silver lining. She's soooooooooo cute! I'm in danger of melting into pool of mushiness right here. Sighhh! They should never grow out of two years. That should be the limit. Then after 15 years of being two, they should be transformed miraculously on 17th birthday as 17 year olds. Isn't that so ideal? They will completely take a detour around the unnecessary childhood and the gawky, embarassing in-between period. Be reborn as confident, savvy, long-necked 17 year olds. No puppy fat to get rid of. No breaking of voice. No uncomfortable puberty. And moreover, a year to look forward to being 18 year old grown ups. It's the best thing that can ever happen. I wonder why God didn't think of it...